


Their Story is Not the Only Story Here to Tell

by TricksterShi



Series: The Pie Bitch 'Verse [3]
Category: Original Work, Supernatural
Genre: Bonus Scene, Coyote and Death are too awesome for you, Death is Badass, Death likes Fair Food, Gen, Godly Rituals, Poor Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:16:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TricksterShi/pseuds/TricksterShi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I make you from the earth, Sam Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Story is Not the Only Story Here to Tell

I make you from the earth, Sam Winchester.  Not from heaven, not from hell, nor any place beside, inside, or between.  
  
A child of uncertainty is how you came to me.  Torn between worlds already; pitiful claims mark your body, but not your spirit.  You would think they would know better, they should, but they cling to their shared story, their prophecies.  They don’t understand that their story is not the only story here to tell.  
  
You came to me with honor and unselfish desires, a savior of the innocent from things of the dark.  Your spirit burns bright, setting your mortal body glowing like the sun rising over the desert, steady and true, but off kilter as of late.  We’ll remedy that, won’t we, pup?  
  
I place the last stone to complete the circle.  The earth’s energy surges around us.  Your spirit flutters, flickering with confusion.  I begin my chant within the circle, stomp my feet and twist and turn beneath the dual skies.  Thunder rises from the ground, growling up from the deep.   
  
I clap and lightning strikes close, forking out overhead and illuminating the Shadowlands in brilliant white.  I complete my first circle and kneel by your body.  It wavers like a mirage, the flesh and the spirit struggling.  I dip my fingers into a bowl by my side, my own blood mixed with sage and ash from a sacred fire burned for three days and three nights.   
  
The symbols come to me from the wells of my memory, which stretches back to before time existed, before the People existed, before Grandmother had many stories to tell.  I paint them on your skin and watch your spirit reach out to them, compelled, curious.  Lightning continues to strike outside the circle, setting fires; the earth vibrates, waiting, ready.  
  
I lift you up and open your mouth.  “Drink,” I say, and tip the bowl against your lips.  You drink to the last of it, and you shudder and convulse.  I hold on until it passes, I keep chanting, calling forth all the forces I can reach.  Your spirit calls out, the sound so small but so powerful.  Beyond the veils, your brother’s spirit answers.  Hush, pup, his time will come.  
  
I lay you down and resume my dance.  The fires outside the circle rise higher to the sky with each revolution.  Clouds gather above, rolling dark and deep.  I call out to the Grandmother for her blessing.  I call to the Grandfather for his strength.  I call to my brothers and sisters for their protection.  I call to living things for their spark.  I call to Death and ask he close his gate to you.  
  
The wind rushes by, fanning the flames.  The clouds open and release their sweet rain.  The fires join and create a second circle, enclosing us, the twisting hands reaching high, too powerful for the rain to extinguish.  I feel the spirits I called upon whisper back, their voices joining with mine, a swelling wave of noise that is not noise but spirit-song.  
  
I call to the Grandmother for her wisdom.  I call to the Grandfather for his knowledge.  I call to my brothers and sisters for their stories.  I call to the living things to accept you back.  I call to Death and thank him.  
  
I dance and stomp and clap.  Day and night pass, flowing by like water in a river.  Sweat and rain roll off my skin.  Fire burns in my heart.  My spirit reaches out to yours, cradling you, whispering to you.  Your spirit grows in size and strength, fusing with flesh and bone to make you truly whole, what you might call immortal.  
  
I chant my last prayers and come to a standstill by your side.  
  
“By my blood and spirit, accept my son so he may walk among you.  I have made him from earth, from sky, from animal, from plant, from water of above and below.  My blood flows within him; my spirit nourishes his.”  
  
I kneel and place my hand over your heart.  The symbols I painted are long gone, absorbed into you, but I can see them painting your spirit; they shift like the sands, forming and reforming like an ever changing story.  
  
“I have made you from the earth and everything it touches, Sam Winchester.  From this day forth you walk as mine, my spirit son.  Today you are reborn, and I name you Chan-koo-wash-tay.  Walk well, pup.”  
  
Around us, the clouds break up; the rain fizzles out, the fire dies down to embers and ash.  The last of the spirit song settles on you as it wanes away.  You sleep for now, but you will wake when your new body is ready.  
  
I leave you in the circle and step outside.  Death waits for me, leaning on a black cane, a small half smile on his thin face.  
  
“You never cease to amuse me, Old Man,” he says, looking beyond to where you sleep.  “You’ll have your hands full with that one.”  
  
I grin and tug on my shirt and jacket.  I conjure a cigar and light it from the last embers of the fire.  I close my eyes and inhale the sacred sage and tobacco.  
  
“The day I take the easy road is the day I hang up my hat and let you take me through your gates.”  
  
I fall in step with Death and we walk away through the desert.  I flick my ashes to the wind and let the smoke settle inside me like a living thing.  It clears my head and cleanses my spirit.  I feel strength seep back in.  
  
“How long do you have before Lucifer notices you’ve skipped out the back door?” I ask.  
  
Death sighs heavily and casts a baleful look down at the ring on his finger.  “He’s just started in on his Michael rant; I have a few decades, at least.”  
  
“Then you’ve got time for a drink.  Tea or beer?”  
  
“I could go for a beer.  Are there any good festivals or fairs around?  I’d like a good funnel cake before I go back.”  
  
I grin and part the veils.  We leave the Shadowlands and step out into the dry Arizona air.  Heat crackles along my skin, chasing away the last drops of rain.  I can still feel you, an extra heartbeat beside my own along with my other children.  Fred will come for you soon, pup, she will teach you our ways and set you on your path.  
  
“You’re gonna like this one,” I tell Death as we join the people flowing through the front gates.  The air is thick with smells, voices, and the energy of spirits in celebration.  “They just introduced deep fried Snickers.  I think it’s going to be a hit.”  
  
“Then take me there first, Old Man.  You know I can’t resist something like that.”  
  
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/poetartist/pic/00077deh/)

**Author's Note:**

> *According to http://www.20000-names.com/male_native_american_names.htm Chan-koo-wash-tay is of Sioux origin and means “Good road”. The site didn’t give a pronunciation, but from years of watching and rewatching Dances With Wolves (where the Sioux language is heavily portrayed) my mind pronounces it “Chan-KOO-wash-tay” for what it’s worth. *shrugs*
> 
> Artwork again by the talented vail_kagami on LJ.


End file.
